Unvarying Enemy

At precisely 2:00 on a rather cold Saturday afternoon, a woman entered the city’s richest bank. She didn’t appear bothered by the cold; she sported only a thin long-sleeved shirt and jeans, while most other people in the bank were shivering in their wool jackets and thick mittens, and she was hardly shivering.
         She walked up to the counter and looked at the man at the counter. Her eyes were on the man, but she was looking at something else, troubled by the day’s muddled behavior. She was thinking about her son’s piano, her daughter’s boyfriend, her husband’s mess of bills on the dining room table, wondering what in the world was for dinner, and of course hoping that in the midst of this she didn’t get a call from her spy agency.
         Agent Melinda Alcott was a very, very busy woman.
         “Ma’am? Ma’am,” the sharp, agitated voice of the man at the counter awoke her from her thoughts. Alcott snapped out of her head and into reality.
         “I’m here for a deposit,” said Alcott. She reached into her purse (which carried a gun as well as a Burberry wallet) and pulled out the wallet, withdrawing from it a check. She handed it to the man, tucking some of the auburn hair that had gotten out of her ponytail behind her ears.
         The man’s eyes widened. Alcott rolled her eyes. Sure, it was a lot of zeros, on the right side of the decimal point. But what else was to be expected? When one works hard and pushes limits, Alcott had learned, the rewards were more than satisfying.
         After the deposit had been made, Alcott turned to leave the bank. A man walked in, wearing a black ski jacket and black jeans.
         He walked up to the counter, and quietly produced a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the man at the register. The man backpedaled for awhile until he hit the wall.
         The man with the gun turned around. Alcott recognized the face. It was Dwayne Modderman, born in New York, but raised in West Texas. Sharpshooter by the age of twelve, with a reputation for always getting his way by the age of fifteen. The agency Alcott worked for had quite a large file on him. He was a loner, lived on the streets and lived off of robberies and other such crimes.
         “Get down, don’t speak, and no one will get hurt.” Modderman said, taking checks from the man who gave them to him hastily.
         Alcott got down and reached into her bag for her gun, rummaging around and wishing she hadn’t brought her large Vera Wang purse today.
         There was no sound for awhile, and then there was a gun against Alcott’s head.
         “Don’t move. Alcott.” Modderman’s voice was the worst sound Alcott had ever heard.
         She cursed under her breath.
         “Surprised? Think you and your little agency are the only ones who have profiles? I know everything about you. Melinda Alcott, 5’6”, born in Seattle, raised in Seattle, moved to New York after you got married. And I know about your job. You want to bring me down, but it’s so hypocritical. Considering that illegal spy agency you work for, your vigilante club, I wouldn’t be wasting my time making myself public.” Modderman sighed.
         Alcott cursed again, much louder, ducking hard and pulling her gun out. She aimed at Modderman, who aimed at her.
         They stared at each other. Two criminals, but different colored pawns. Different kings and queens and knights, but the same chess board. There’s only one winner in a game of chess, and Alcott knew there was only one winner in a game of life or death.
         One shot. Both were in checkmate. If Alcott didn’t move now, he could kill her instantly. There was the chance that she could dodge it, but that was unlikely at such a close range. If Modderman didn’t move immediately, Alcott would have him full of lead faster than anything, but he could dodge it if he moved fast enough.
         Suddenly, something odd happened. The king withdrew, retreated across the beaten chessboard path. Modderman lowered his gun, set it on the ground, turned and walked away.
         Alcott nodded once, turned, and left the bank grounds immediately.
         The pawns marched away with a draw.